


As I Want You To Be

by Narcissistic_Ninny



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narcissistic_Ninny/pseuds/Narcissistic_Ninny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He spots him on a Thursday, sitting outside his favourite coffee shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As I Want You To Be

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta, whitecourtain. Woman totally deserves a medal for her hard work.

 

 He spots him on a Thursday, sitting outside his favourite coffee shop. Jason’s reading a wrinkled paperback, a crushed cigarette butt in the ashtray on the table, along with a half-drank cup of coffee, sitting there cold and forgotten.

His face was scruffy, cheeks and jaw covered in a five o’clock shadow, his hair a little longer. He’s in beat up boots and worn clothing, his eyes downcast, completely absorbed in his book. Tim stands there for a bit, he knows he probably looks like a creep, just looming outside a coffee shop, standing and staring, but he continues to do it.

Thing is, Tim used to follow Jason around, studying him through his camera lense; capturing every moment of Jason’s life as Robin. Truth is, Tim doesn’t know what Jason does during the day, when he’s not Red Hood. He suspects he has a job, or at least a hobby to preoccupy himself with before he goes out on patrol for the night.

One of the cashiers goes outside, picking up empty cups of coffee on the other tables around Jason. She goes up to Jason, and sees them talking, Jason flashes her a smile; so different from the ones he uses when he’s on patrol or around the family. He sees the way she looks both timid and cheery when she talks to him. Tim heads inside to order his coffee. When he gets his cup, he wanders outside, where Jason is now alone.

He settles in the chair in front of Jason, who pointedly ignores him, his eyes on the pages of his book – _A Brief History of the Dead_. Morbid, but it suitsJason. The older man closes his book, his thumb keeping track of the page where he left off, pale blue eyes on Tim. “Can I help you?”

“Not really.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Why are you here then?”

“Coffee,” Tim says, holding up his cup. “You are sitting in a coffee shop, Jason.”

“And here I thought you came for my sparkling personality.”

Tim laughs, Jason’s grin turning sharp.

“Sparkling wouldn’t be the word I’d use to describe you.”

Jason’s grin gets sharper, a little dark. “What word would you use to describe me then?”

It’s Tim’s turn to grin. He could smile darkly the way Jason can, but he smiles politely instead, the Tim Wayne smile he saves for the press. He doesn’t answer him. “Lunch?” he asks. “Tomorrow?”

They hadn’t spent time together since that morning they had breakfast together. He doesn’t know if he’s pushing something, asking him to lunch, the way he had wondered if he had been pressing his luck when he had asked Jason to stay for breakfast. But he remembers the way Jason’s voice had hardened when he pointed out he hadn’t been so nice to him in the past.

Tim got that. But he knew Jason did feel bad for what happened between them. He saw it in the way Jason hesitated before staying, when he said with tense shoulders that he had been an ass, asking without words why Tim wanted him around. Tim can see the way he acts shielded around them, the way he holds back from laughing around them, from being the boy Tim has pictures of.

Jason shrugs, closing his book completely. He settles it on the table, drumming his fingers on the table, grinning at Tim. “As long as you’re paying, sure.”

 

++

 

There’s a bag over his head. Everything is black; he doesn’t know how long he’s been there, tied to a chair, his body aching and shivering. His shoes had been taken away, his feet bare; left to suffer through the cold and numbness.

He was taken right off the streets of Gotham on his way to his apartment. He had been thinking about Patrol at the time. Sometimes he worried about getting hurt as Red Robin that he forgot he could get hurt as Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne’s adopted son.

They never remove the bag from his head, even when they punch him. It’s wet, heavy with his blood. His entire body aches, it hurts to move, every inhale of breath just sends jolts of pain throughout his entire body.

He’s a survivor, he knows he’ll make it, had always been optimistic like that.

Tim stays quiet through their questions, and when he doesn’t answer he gets punched again. Sometimes in the ribs, sucking all the air from his lungs. Sometimes it’s across the face, the bag itchy against his swollen, bruised cheeks.

He never says anything, just stays still and silent. It unnerves them, but it pisses them off more.

Despite the pain, he listens, listens. He’s good at it, good at the details. The staleness in the air and the gritty texture under his heels tell him they are somewhere that’s been abandoned. The way their voices echo when they talk, when they walk towards him tells him it’s in a warehouse in the outskirts of town. The lack of the noisy traffic and racket of city life only further confirm it.

He listens to the men’s accents, to what they’re saying -they don’t know he speaks German. He realizes they must be the men he had seen outside the library four days before he was captured. They had been following him and he had been too entertained with the idea that they were harmless. He had seen two of them, but listening to their voices, he knows there are three of them.

The way they punch tells him about them, enough to entertain him. One of them is left-handed, also the one who tends to punch him the most. He keeps his wedding ring on when he punches Tim. The other one is heavy set, considering how much weight he puts behind each punch. Tim estimates he’s around Jason’s weight, though he doesn’t punch nearly as hard as Jason. The third, their leader, smells like cheap cologne and is the shortest one. He has arthritis; he can tell by the way his knuckles feel when they connect to his ribs.

He takes mental notes, and it takes his mind of the pain somewhat. He listens to it all, but he doesn’t focus on it.

Instead, he focuses on what he’s going to do when he gets out. Tim plans to return that book from the library he had checked out. He makes plans to sleep in on Sunday, because his body really needs it. Then, he’ll treat himself out to that bistro he always wanted to go to, but never had the chance to visit.

He ignores the taste of blood in his mouth.

He waits for Dick or Cass to get him. Bruce was away, on a different planet, and he wouldn’t be back for a month or two. He waits, knowing they’ll find him soon. With Barbara helping them, it shouldn’t take long.

He waits and waits.

Something goes wrong, Tim can feel it before the chaos breaks out. He hears them cursing in their native tongue, hears clicks as they take the safety off their guns. Glass breaks, someone screams, and their guns fire in the abandoned warehouse. Tim freezes when there’s a gun pressed to his temple, and Christophe –the left-handed one, Tim did pay attention- yells that he’ll shoot.

Several gunshots ring out, but he can’t feel any bullets inside of him.

 

++

 

He wakes up in someone’s apartment, covers pulled to his chest, the room warm in the mist of Gotham’s cool fall weather. Tim doesn’t recognize the apartment he’s in. When his head is cleared, he sits up, ignoring the pain washing over his body, the throbbing ache in his temples. There are punk band posters on the wall, teacups and old paperbacks on the nightstand. He looks down, noticing Jason asleep on the floor next to him. His limbs are sprawled like he’s a starfish, and snoring lightly. He’d shaven and gotten a haircut since the last time Tim saw him. It made him look younger, somewhere close to his actual age. Tim makes a face when he notices the bit of dribble at the corner of his mouth. But, drool or not, he is the man who saved him.

There are bandages on his torso; Jason must have wrapped his wounds while he was out cold. He touches his sides, and there are bruises from the beating he received, but not a single gunshot wound. He thinks about the men, the shots he had heard before he was hauled out of the warehouse, faced with cold night air. He wondered if they were dead or not. Knowing Jason, they probably were.

Tim knows he should be upset with Jason about it, but sitting there in Jason’s bed, he can’t bring himself to feel anything. He just feels tired. So he falls asleep again.

The next time he wakes up, Jason is awake, sitting next to him as soon as Tim can sit up, putting ointment on his face with gentle fingers, brushing back the hair from his face. “Well, the swelling on your cheek went down, your pretty little face should be back to normal in a few days.”

Tim stays completely still and quiet while Jason undoes the bandages from his torso, adding ointment on his chest and the sides of his ribs, bruises black like dark ink staining his skin. It’s ugly, but it won’t scar.

He remembers Jason lifting the bag from his face, the way Jason had carried him out, the way his big arms felt around him when Jason sat behind him on his motorcycle, speeding them away from the warehouse when Tim had sagged back into his warm chest, blacking out when he knew he was safe.

“You,” he said, lips chapped, mouth dry.

He looks at Tim. “I already called Dick to tell him you’re okay.”

“I’m surprised he’s not here.”

“I might have hung up on him after he started nagging me about how I killed the assholes that kidnapped you.”

Tim focuses on Jason’s hands, hands of a killer, tender as they wrap him in fresh bandages. “Thank you,” he says, the words honest on his lips.

He tries looking into Jason’s eyes, but the older man doesn’t look at him. He imagines Jason doesn’t get thanked often.

Jason leaves Tim alone in the bedroom, but he can’t go back to sleep. Exhaustion had left his body, only leaving pain in its wake, leaving him to look at all the punk band posters Jason has hanged up on the walls. He has an ashtray next to his drawer, knives hanging up on the wall, and books lined up on shelves, some of them are neatly stacked in piles in the corner. Jason returns ten minutes later, sitting on the bed next to Tim, handing him breakfast. It wasn’t even cereal, like Dick would have served. Tim’s surprised by the omelet and toast. Even Tim doesn’t know how to cook. It takes him by surprise that Jason does.  

It’s not bad.

They eat in silence, their forks cutting through their eggs, Jason’s feet crossed on the ankles, Tim’s legs hidden under the sheets. Tim learns that Jason has almost as many books in his apartment as he does and Jason taught himself how to cook. _I didn’t always have a butler to cook for me, rich boy._

It’s around lunchtime, when Tim gets up to go the bathroom and takes the opportunity to walk around Jason’s apartment that he notices that Jason doesn’t even own a TV. Tim makes a comment about it, and Jason looks around like he himself has just noticed.

“If it bothers you that much, I could always go to the electronic shop down the block,” he said, shrugging.

“You don’t have to steal a TV for me.”

“Christ replacement, I do buy some things you know.”

“Some things,” Tim repeats, feeling his lips curl.

Jason curls his lips back, smirking at the same time.

Tim spends a full day at his place, mostly sleeping. The second day he sleeps and eats, watching bad TV with Jason –Jason went as far as to show Tim the receipt for the TV -before he decides he should go.

He’s about to go out the door when Jason chucks a hoodie at him. Tim catches it before it hits his face. He stares at Jason, at the hoodie, then back at Jason. “Your clothes are covered in blood,” Jason said.

Mumbling his thanks, Tim slides the hoodie over his chest; the sleeves hide the entirety of his hands and fingers. The hoodie is red, warmer and softer than any of the sweaters Tim has. He doesn’t miss the way Jason smirks at him, like he finds it so amusing that Tim is swimming in his clothing, looking smaller than usual.

“Take care kid,” he said, standing by the door, watching Tim. His eyes a pale bluish green, a pigment Tim had seen in a painting in a museum some time ago. “Give it back when you can.”

 

++

 

He’s running, heart pounding fast in his chest. He can feel his blood pulse in his veins, his head throbbing. Tim is bleeding, red spilling onto his back as he carries him, running but never fast enough, Tim slowly dying against his back, Tim’s grip around his neck loosening. Jason doesn’t make it on time.

Usually his dreams were the predictable sort. A crowbar, a sadistic smile, a coffin, the Lazarus Pit, but for the past few nights, Jason was plagued with nightmares about Tim.

He shouldn’t be so terrified of those dreams. Not too long before he had been the one trying to off the replacement. A part of him tries to convince himself that he was never seriously planning on killing him. If he wanted someone dead, they always ended up dead. It was that simple. But he wasn’t so sure anymore.

A lot of things from before doesn’t make sense, even to him, his own memories overwritten by his anger and rage, some from the Pit, some from before. He tells himself he never really wanted to hurt Tim. Just prove that he was capable of beating the twerp who replaced him.

But what he knows for certain is that he’s worried. Jason sat in bed, absently twirling a blade in his hand. What happened to Tim was nothing new. It happened to all of them. It wasn’t really anything to be upset about.  

If he was honest he had been scared. He had been worried about Tim, wondering if he was okay or not.

Revenge would be his usual approach, but those men were dead, and he sort of wished he had taken his time with their punishment instead of letting them off easy for what they had done to Tim. He had seen the scars, seen the sad look in Tim’s eyes that morning when he woke.

It broke something inside of Jason. He had never seen that look in Tim’s eyes. Even those times when he attacked and hurt him, Tim still had gleam in his eyes, looking untouchable and strong, even with broken bones and black eyes.

He wonders what Tim’s nightmares are, what he’s afraid of.

Tim and his careful manner and measured smiles; the way he can read into things with a detective’s mind like Bruce. He probably had the same fear as Bruce, of failing. He knows Bruce considered his death his biggest failure. And Jason knows about Tim’s old man.

Jason sets his blade aside, pillowing his head on top of his hands, eyes on the ceiling. He doesn’t sleep until sunlight bleeds into his bedroom, exhaustion knocking him out.

 

++

 

Jason sighs, deep and a little melodramatic.

The mission had gone on without event. Both unscratched, Tim zip-tying the drug dealers for Gordon and his men to find, Jason’s fingers hovering over the gun strapped to his thigh, like he had gone out expecting more of a fight. He didn’t have to use his bullets, Tim didn’t have to stop him from using them.

Jason wasn’t wearing his helmet; the corner of his lips turned down as he stared down the unconscious men. Tim remembers the first time he had stepped closer to see his face, the curve of Jason’s lips tilting up when Tim stared. _I ditched the helmet for your benefit, now we can gaze into each other’s eyes;_ Jason smirked. Tim ignored how those words made him feel, pushing them aside to think about them later. _I have much better things to do with my time_.

The older man reached into his pocket, pulling a pack out from his leather jacket. Tim wondered how it managed to survive his abuses when he saw the cigarette he pulled out, wrinkled and bent, like the rest of the others in the mistreated pack. Jason cupped a hand around the lighter and tip of his crumpled cigarette, inhaling deeply.

Tim finished giving their location to the GCPD, watching as Jason exhaled, head tipped back heavenward as he blew into the dark and polluted skies. Jason catches him looking, lifts the cigarette in his direction. “What, do you want a drag?”

“No.”

“Come on,” Jason said, a smirk playing on his lips. “Try it.”

“Wave that in front of me again and I swear I’ll beat you with my Bo staff.”

“Touchy.”

Tim kept his eyes narrowed when he regarded the older man. He told Jason if he dared to exhale in his direction, he would hurt him. Jason did it anyways, through grinning lips before Tim dug the end of his Bo staff into Jason’s shin. Hard.

Jason looked up at him as he bent down to rub at the spot where Tim had kicked him. “Oh baby bird, how did you know I like them feisty?”

Tim sighs, firing a cable to the nearest building when he heard the sound of the sirens coming their way, the wailing drowning out Jason’s chuckles.

 

++

 

It’s a Tuesday night when Jason decides to swing by Tim’s apartment. Tim’s seated on the edge of the love seat, his laptop placed on the armrest. He’s in a pair of old jeans and Jason’s red hoodie. His lean legs tucked under him, hair unkempt and in his eyes. Tim stares at him, regarding him with curiosity. Jason might have snuck in through the window instead of knocking on the door, but Tim shouldn’t be surprised that he could get past his security system.

Wanting his hoodie back is the excuse Jason uses, but he also wanted to see where Tim lived. His hoodie is a good enough excuse to break into his flat by Jason’s standards. His apartment is neat and clean, with the exception of the books littered on every tabletop, with more cameras and laptops than most electronic shops, half empty coffee mugs and teacups not far away from each laptop.

“Comfy?” he asks, jerking his head to Tim, who looks warm and lost in his sweater.

Tim simply nods, taking a sip form his tea – earl grey – that Alfred no doubt gave him. The movement of his head causes more hair to fall in front of his eyes. Tim shakes his head, pushing the strands of hair away, looking small and boyish. Nothing like the playboy the press paints Tim Wayne out to be.

“Wonderful,” Jason says with a hint of sarcasm. “Now give it back.”

Tim shakes his head, the hair that had been tucked behind his ear coming loose again. Jason doesn’t know why he bothers. “Too comfy,” he admits.

“Thief,” he accuses.

“You’re the thief,” Tim said, taking his eyes off his laptop, fixing him with a knowing gaze.

“Steal the Bat’s tires once and you never hear the end of it.”

Tim grins, breaking eye contact to go back to his laptop, reviewing the files Bruce had sent him. He watches from over the brim of his mug as Jason wanders around his place, picking up his books, one by one, reading the first page before either putting it back on the shelf or setting it aside, like he’s planning on taking them with him. As long as he plans on giving them back Tim doesn’t mind.

Jason settles on the couch, his long legs dangling over the arm of the couch, setting McCarthy’s _The Road_ on his toned stomach. They settle into silence.

Tim types. Jason flips a page.

It’s relaxing in a way Tim appreciates. Peaceful, like it’s routine between them.

When his tea starts to get cold and he starts to get hungry, he takes out his phone to order delivery. Jason peaks at him from his spot on the couch, raising an eyebrow when Tim orders way too much. Tim hangs up, shrugging, says, “I think I ordered too much. You like Chinese?”

They end up sitting on the floor, eating their take out on the coffee table as they watch re-runs of Friends. Jason chuckles instead of laughing outright, and Tim files it, tucks it away along with all the information he’s been learning about Jason. He also learns that Jason won’t touch the carrot chunks in the fried rice.

When it gets to the morning hours, Jason yawns, stretching so his shirt slides up to reveal a sliver of his stomach. Tim pointedly stares at the TV. Before Jason could leave through Tim’s window, Tim takes off the hoodie Jason came for, handing it to him. “Have it back,” he said.

He hated to depart with it, but it isn’t his. Jason takes it, his eyes on him, not the hoodie, his fingers brushing over Tim’s.

“Lunch?” he asks again.

A part of him knows he asked him out for lunch is because Jason is a puzzle he needs to solve. Tim always loved solving mysteries, and no one was a bigger mystery than Jason Todd. He wants to know him, because he feels he gets him and understands him better than Bruce or Dick do sometimes, even though they have known him longer, knew him in a way Tim didn’t.

Jason blows Tim a kiss before he jumps out his window.

That night Tim dreams of blue eyes, a smirk, it’s all Jason.

 

++

 

The wind keeps blowing most of Tim’s hair in his face. He keeps huffing, moving the strands from his face, lips pursed, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. His glasses are almost as big as his face, Jason notices. He wonders if that’s how he chooses to hide in public, behind sweaters better suited for someone forty years older and glasses that hide the intensity of his blue eyes, behind the mess of thick black hair.

It’s starting to get cold in Gotham. Usually the weather went from unbearable humidity in the summer, skipped pleasantries like fall, and went right to arctic, freezing winters. Gotham was great like that. Jason was used to it. After spending a few nights with nothing but a thin jacket as a blanket, he got pretty used to it.

Tim is wearing a thin cardigan better suited for an old man, but he manages to look good in it. Jason has no trouble imagining Tim knitting that sweater himself; just like he has no trouble imagining Tim strangling a man with his thighs. What a way to go though.

He’s wearing the red hoodie that Tim returned under his favorite leather jacket, and can’t help but notice that instead of cigarettes and aftershave it smells more like Tim now. Green apple shampoo, lavender laundry detergent, and _Tim_. 

Tim barely reaches his shoulder, and he looks so cold in just his cardigan, pink staining his cheeks. He looks happy, talking about the bistro he wanted to try. Jason’s not sure why he wants to try the bistro with him, but Jason’s glad for the invite all the same. Tim shivers when he tells Jason he always wanted to try the stuffed chicken. Says, it smells amazing when he walks past it on his way to work.

Jason can’t take his pathetic shivering any longer, shrugging off his jacket and taking off his hoodie, placing it over Tim’s narrow shoulders. Tim looks up at him through thick lashes, staring at him like he’s trying to figure out what Jason is up to. He can hardly blame him for his suspicions, but still. Ouch.

“You look cold,” he offers for explanation, putting his leather jacket back on.

Tim smiles, adjusting his shoulders; moving them to fit his arms through the sleeves. Tim is lost in his sweater, several sizes too big for him, enough to cover his hands up to his knuckles. Even behind the bangs Jason could still see Tim’s smile, his dimples managing to peak through when he says, _thank you._

 

++

 

They meet in front of the theatre on Tuesday. Tim wanted to watch the new sci-fi film, and Jason had met him in the front, but none of them bothered to check if it was playing there. They argued in front of the cinema, trying to pick another movie they could watch. They couldn’t decide and ended up going out for dinner.

Afterwards they end up walking through crowded streets, under subway stations, over bridges, passing neon signs, the downtown area lit bright. Their fingers brush sometimes when they walk. They’re not quiet like they were a few nights ago. Tim mostly asks Jason questions. Mostly, Jason teases Tim about his height. Tim wants to wrap his fingers around his neck and strangle him. Or kiss him until he renders the other man speechless.

They’re waiting for the light to turn to cross the street, and Jason is smirking down at Tim, nudging his shoulder, asking him what he wants to do for the rest of the night. It starts to rain on them, the sky darker than before. Jason stares up, his curved palm hovering over his squinted eyes. Tim winces as the rain comes down hard, slapping their faces with it, and the wind picks up. Then Jason looks down at him, scruffy face set with resolution.

“Let’s get drunk.”

It wouldn’t be the first time Tim’s gotten drunk, so he grins, saying “Okay.”

Their knees brush occasionally, sitting on the floor with their backs leaning on the couch. Tim feels heat on his cheeks from the rum and the vodka. Most definitely the alcohol, plus Jason’s hand on his thigh, sometimes the back of his neck, the heat he felt on his face spreading all over. 

Tim didn’t want to mix alcohol, just wanted to stick to one drink, but Jason called him a pussy, passing him different bottles. Tim can’t hold his liquor the way Jason can, which isn’t surprising. Jason explains that when dealing with Russian mafia, being able to hold your liquor is a must; it’s how he learned to drink. Tim asks him about that, Jason tells him.

Jason cusses too much. Tim laughs at his stories.

He tells him of his time he spent in London, and Tim smiles too broadly when he shows off both his Manchester and London accents he picked up. _Alfred would be impressed._ _Damn right he would._

The rain pours outside, water trickling down the windows, Jason’s large and warm against his side. He looks young, has him laughing, and he doesn’t think he would have ever managed that feat until that moment he tells Jason about the time Kon and him threw a party in the Fortress of Solitude.

Jason chuckles, looking over at Tim; his cheeks pink, looking more relaxed than he’s ever seen him. He puts his arm around his shoulder, dragging him closer, feeling a sudden rush of affection towards him.  “Sorry I tried to kill you before.”

Tim shrugs, like it’s a normal occurrence in his day-to-day life. With their line of work it is, but still. Jason wishes that he had never tried to hurt the kid before, back when he thought killing him was a good idea. His life was probably hard enough without Jason trying to fuck it up. He should have taken time to get to know him, he would have figured out he kind of liked him. _Really_ liked him.

“Sorry I took pictures of you when you were Robin,” Tim mutters as he begins to lean heavily on him, melting into his side. “And you know, the stalking and stuff.” Tim even did air quotes when he said the word stalking.

“No worries. Wait. What?” his brain re-plays his words, and he doesn’t quite know what Tim means by that.

And Tim laughs, all light and airy, like he knows the heaviness of his words but is trying to play it off. Then he closes his eyes and Jason wants to shake the truth out of him, but doesn’t.

Instead he sits there quietly, watching as Tim snores softly, his cheek pressed to his shoulder.

 

++

 

It’s Thursday and Jason is still without an understanding of what Tim meant by the photos. He even called Dick to ask him what Tim had meant by that, and much to his annoyance, Dick laughed. The asshole laughed so hard he dropped his cell. Afterwards when he picked it up he couldn’t even breathe, much less talk, then when he was back to normal he was being annoyingly cryptic about his answers, and Jason didn’t have the patience for him and hung up.

He could have asked Alfred, but he suspected the old man’s reaction to his question would be similar to Dick’s. He thought about breaking into Tim’s flat to borrow his laptops without permission, but thought better of it. He returned to his safe house after a long night of patrol, finding a bottle of wine and a photo leaning against it.

It’s a photo of him as Robin, scaly green short pants and all. He picks it up with gloved hands. He’s grinning in the photo, fighting side by side with Bruce. It’s not unlike the first time he had seen Tim, in the photo Talia had given of him. He realizes what Tim meant by the stalking and the photos.

All of his cameras, he just never thought he would be the subject of one of his photos. He went to bed, grabbing the wine bottle by the neck, planning on drinking down as much as he could. He lay cushioned against his pillow, looking at the photo of himself.

Once he had thought Tim had stolen the only joyful thing about his childhood, the only good memories he had in his short and violent life. Times when he had a father and a kind old butler to take care of him, a home and a purpose.

He had been so angry at Tim, back when he came back. He had thought Tim was invading their lives, fitting into the spaces where he didn’t belong, because once it had been Jason’s place. He had been so wrong, the little twerp had already been a part of their lives and he hadn’t even known it.

He grinned at the picture, tacking it on the wall like he had done with the photo of Tim and Bruce, placing it between his Black Flag and Dead Kennedys posters.

That night, he dreamt of flying.

 

++

 

Dick is smiling like he’s completely figured Tim out. His teeth are showing, mouth wide in a gleeful grin, his eyes looking at him like he knows. Knows what, Tim isn’t even sure. He has to be careful, because that smile is persuasive, has a way of getting things out of people. If he’s not careful, he’s going to give him teasing material. Tim can’t have that.

Jurassic Park is playing in the background, the surround sound reaching all the way to the kitchen. Damian is demanding popcorn from his spot on the couch, his head can’t even be seen from over the couch, Titus curled up around him as the opening credits play.

They both join him in the living room, Dick noisily crunching on a gigantic bowl of popcorn settled in his lap. Dick watches the movie for a full five minutes before he turns to Tim, that same smile from before painted on his features. “How’s Jason?”

Tim isn’t surprised. There can’t be secrets with any of them, not only are they nosey, they pride themselves of being in people’s business. Tim doesn’t show any outward reaction to Dick’s question, stealing popcorn from Dick’s bowl. “He’s doing fine.”

“Fine?” Damian scoffs next to him, absently scratching Titus behind the ear. “Are we still talking about Todd? The murderous psychopath?”

“He went through a lot,” Tim says, then adds, “He’s not a murderous psychopath.”

Dick smiles even wider; face threatening to split. “It’s cute when you defend him.”

Damian looks upset, jaw set tight, his expression much too aggravated and stressed for someone his age. He crosses his arms over his small chest. “You two are made for each other, both of you are Batman’s greatest failures and the worst Robins.”

Dick was about to say something. He didn’t even need to; Damian shushed them when the T-Rex appeared on the screen, completely engrossed in the movie.

They sit through the movie without further pressing on Jason.

 

++

 

“How was the movie?” Jason asked from his spot on the couch, where he was reading one of Tim’s books that he borrowed. Borrowed, not took without permission.

“Great,” Tim said, climbing in through his window. He’s wearing his hoodie again. He wonders if Tim just thought of it as his own now. With the way he wears it and doesn’t make a move to give it back, it might as well be his. “You missed out.”

“I know, I love dinosaurs, especially the awesome one Bruce has in the cave,” he said, setting his book down on his belly, looking around his home. “That’s what my flat is missing.”

“That and comfortable furniture,” Tim said, sitting on the arm of the couch, looking down at Jason with a teasing smile.

“Screw you Tim. My flat is awesome.”

“You didn’t even have a TV before I came around.”

“It’s called going out, nerd wonder.”

“Bars I take it.”

“Well, to be fair, they have TVs in there.”

Tim laughs, punching his arm, and Jason remembers how strong he is, how well he can hide that strength when he wants to. Tim is a weapon, just like the rest of them. It makes something bloom inside Jason, something hungry as he wraps his fingers around Tim’s wrist, pulling him in.

There’s a hint of a smirk on Tim’s lips. Jason wonders when they got comfortable with each other, when did they reach the point where they joked and held each other with tight grips. He wonders when did he start to notice the freckles on the younger man’s face, or how he keeps hair ties around his apartment for when he ties his hair back if he does cleaning.

He spares Tim a look before he drags him into his lap, stealing a kiss from him, firmly pressing his lips to his, breathing in through his nose. Tim kisses him back just as hard, his fingers on his temple and cheeks, solid warmth on his chest when he presses close.

They pull back, their foreheads still touching as they smile at each other. “Thief,” Tim says, voice hushed in a whisper.

“You love it,” he said, running his hands over Tim’s sides, under the red hoodie to touch his bare torso.

Tim, all supple strength and cute dimples, and Jason can’t be blamed for not being able to keep his hands to himself. He barely weighs a thing, but his calloused fingers map out scars on his body, his muscled stomach. Tim’s hard muscle under soft skin and features, a trained killer disguised as a boy.

“You know, you could still be my Robin,” he said.

It’s not something he’s thought about seriously in some time, but saying it aloud, he wonders if that thought had just been sitting there, waiting for Jason’s big mouth to just spill it out. The way Tim smirks tells him he is thinking along the same lines.

“I could,” he dwelled. 

“We could easily run Gotham if you were,” he added, his lips on Tim’s shoulder, hands running over Tim’s thighs. “Me with my gun and charisma, you with your sparkling intellect.”

“Mm,” he hummed, making a show of thinking it over. “It’ll be a lot of work.”

“It will.”

“And a lot of blood.”

“That too.” Tim smiles, the flash of his teeth and look in his eyes more deadly than any of Bruce’s scowls. “But I rather like what we have going on right now.”

Jason has to agree.

He kisses him, his hand tight in Tim’s dark hair as Tim makes a noise, soft and sweet, his fingers squeezing Jason’s arm tight, digging in hard enough to bruise.

Tim’s dangerous. That’s what Jason likes about him.

 

++

 

He sighs, dabbing the cut on Tim’s eyebrow with a cotton ball. Tim hisses. Jason frowns at him. “Baby bird, how do you even get into these messes?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Tim asks, looking at him oddly.

“You’re in worse shape than I am.”

He had already wrapped and bandaged Tim in the bathroom, now they were sitting on the bed, cleaning the small cuts on his face. Tim had been close to falling asleep on the sink where Jason was cleaning him up, so he moved him to the bed. It would be easier to tuck him in.

Tim ruffles his hair, debris falling on the bed sheets. “You blew up another warehouse, didn’t you?”

“I might have.”

“And you broke your nose. Again.”

He’s broken it more times than he can count, all part of the job and all, and each time he looks more and more like the street kid Bruce picked up. Tim has a face that says he’s not impressed by Jason’s physical state.

“Don’t give me that look. You dislocated your shoulder. Again.”

Tim grins, and it’s that sharp grin that always pulls Jason in, like a current and he’s being dragged deeper in the ocean. He can’t escape the tides puling him in. He doesn’t want to.

He pulls him into his lap. Tim doesn’t protest.  “It was a rough day,” Tim whispers into his mouth, Jason’s hand working him. Tim squirms in his lap, his nails on his skin, cheery red lines crisscrossing the scars on his chest. Sharp teeth on his shoulder, leaving little crescent marks in their wake.

Tim is all supple strength and dimples, pulling Jason over his smaller body.

The sheets get stained with their blood, but neither complained about it in the morning.

 

++

 

Jason buys him coffee, something sweet with lots of foam. He always offers to pay, even if Tim has enough money to spare, but Jason likes to make a show of being able to purchase things - not steal – for Tim. Tim thinks it’s cute, so he lets him pay for coffee. They both silently agreed that he would pay for expensive dinners and dates.

“Did you pay for this?” he teased when Jason handed it to him.

“I pay for some things,” he said, exaggerating his indignation.

Tim frowned when he read what was on the side of the cup. “It says Stalker,” he said, pointing to the neat cursive written in a sharpie.

“Just drink it. I got you that frappuccino you like, with extra whipped cream.”

Tim doesn’t do anything to Jason then. He would think of something to get even with him.

They sit next to each other in the busy café; Tim sips his coffee while Jason smokes his cigarette. Jason’s hand occasionally lands on his thigh then strays away to hide in his pocket. Tim doesn’t know if he does that for himself or for Tim.

“Dick wants to have a brother’s movie night,” Tim says, setting his cup of coffee down. “He complained we don’t hang out as normal brothers often enough.”

“Tell Dick I’m not his brother,” he says, exhaling away from Tim. Jason is considerate when he chooses to be.

Tim smirks. He knows Jason is just sour from the time Dick laughed at him for not knowing about the photos. Dick could pull off the bullying older brother thing when he put his mind to it.  He tortured Tim enough, that was for sure.

“It’s on Saturday night.”

Jason looks like he’s about to argue, but Tim speaks up. “I already told him we’re going.”

“What makes you think I’ll listen to you?” he asked. Voice a low rumble.

“We’re watching the Princess Bride.”

“I do like that movie, but I’m still not convinced.”

“I have your hoodie.”

Tim is not above blackmail.

“I have your camera,” Jason says around a cigarette.

Neither is Jason.

Their lips curl at the same time as they stare at each other.

Tim isn’t scared by Jason’s threats. Jason isn’t threatened by him, leaning forward in his chair, his cigarette dangling from his grinning lips. Scarred hands return to Tim’s thighs.

Lazy movements, his hands sliding over the muscles of his thighs, voice that deep growl like when they fuck, when they fuck slow and deep, and at nights his voice and wandering hands is all Tim can focus on, all he wants to focus on. And at nights he dreams of his smirk, the grin he had flashed him that night when he blew him a kiss, that smile the same one he carried as a boy when he flew over the streets of Gotham.

“So you’re coming, right?” Tim asks as Jason’s hands settle low on his hips. 

Jason mutters something dark under his breath, knowing he can’t get out of it.

Tim smiles. He won that battle.

 

++

 

Jason always sleeps around him, tight and crushing, making it hard for Tim to escape without waking him. Jason tends to sling his arm around his waist, holding him to his chest, and if Tim didn’t know him the way he did, he wouldn’t know that Jason is capable of such tenderness. Sometimes he could be a downright leech, the way he clings to Tim in his sleep.

He escapes Jason’s arms, managing not to wake the older man.

Tim smiles down at him.

His fingers trace over the scars on his chest, where the Y started at his shoulders, down to his navel. The burn scars and the other new ones Jason collected over the years, years when he was away.

His fingers brush over his strong jaw, where a hint of stubble was growing. He delicately traced around his eyebrow ridge, up to his temple, his fingers lost on the shock of snow-white hair there, surrounded by ink black hair.

He secretly loved that about Jason’s hair, the contrast, the softness of it.

He wonders when he started to associate the word safe with Jason. When he started to crave the other man’s attention, when he secretly wasn’t that annoyed to waking up with Jason’s big arms around him.

Jason’s eyes open, catching Tim as his fingers glided over his face. Jason reached for him, pushing Tim onto his back, Jason on top. Tim expected to be kissed or questioned, not his big hands moving over his face like Tim has been doing.

Tim tries not to shiver when his fingers map over his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, thumbing his lip, fingers on his eyebrow ridge, into his hair. Pale blue-green eyes studying his face, face so full of intent it makes Tim flush.

It’s different.

It’s intimate.

Tim wants Jason’s hands on him forever.

 

++

 

Tim smiles when he sees Jason try to escape one of Dick’s hugs. It’s a fruitless effort, and saying no to a hug to Dick is telling him yes, because he will try that much harder to hug you, convinced you need it. Jason swears up and down, threatening to break Dick’s fingers, and Dick spends the entire afternoon chasing him around with a grin on his face.

He’s just glad Dick’s teasing Jason and not him. He knows first hand what a dick Dick would be. Eventually the two men settle for a high five, which satisfies both of them.

Damian complains about the movie when the trailers start, saying he doesn’t want to watch anything with princesses, but just like Jurassic Park he was the one quieting them when the movie started.

Dick’s eyes occasionally travel to Tim’s collar, where Jason left bite marks, but he never says anything about it. He smiles happily, albeit a bit forced when he addresses Jason.

It’s a win when Tim hooks his index finger in the belt loop of Jason’s jeans, innocently letting his finger hang there until Dick and Damian get uncomfortable. They didn’t do more than that, but it was enough to make Damian shudder and Dick focus a little too hard on the movie.

Dick always uses their brothers’ movie night as an excuse to order several boxes of pizza and top them with his favorite cereal. Jason had apparently forgotten about their older brother’s eating habits, a look of utter disgust on his face while he watched Dick eat.

They settle into teasing each other, and Tim can see Alfred standing by with a smile on his face. He knows it makes him happy when they’re all under the same roof. Tim admits he enjoys it too, even if Damian and Jason fight like two year olds.

Before him and Jason head out for the night, Dick grabs Tim by the arm. “You look happy. Jason too.” He smiled. “I’m happy for you guys.”

Tim smiles back.

He heads to his car, Jason’s fingers curled around his wrist, Jason’s hoodie too big and warm around him.

 

++

 

 


End file.
